


Let Me Count The Ways

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Guro, M/M, Religious Themes & References, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a thousand ways to tell someone that you love them. France and England's are stranger than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Count The Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Let Me Count The Ways  
> Author: Zalia Chimera  
> Fandom: Hetalia  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Pairing: England/France  
> Warnings: Gore/guro, consensually cutting someone up, disturbing imagery
> 
> Summary: There are a thousand ways to tell someone that you love them. France and England's are stranger than most.

There is coarse rope twisted around France's wrists and it rubs them raw as he tugs against it, skin reddening and twisting beneath it. He makes those soft little sounds as England pulls the rope tighter until France cries out in pain as the bones grind together.

"You're so fucking twisted,” England growls, a savage sound. He drops the rope, letting France's arms free. He keeps them held above his head at that painful angle

The knife leaves a long red line down the length of France's breastbone. He hisses, back arching perfectly, pulse jumping and _fuck_ , fuckfuckfuck England wants to just pull him up against his body and hold him, lick the sweat-slick from his shoulders. France, catches his wrist, draws it to his lips and kisses the pulse there delicately, and he's smiling, the bastard is _smiling_ and from tenderness to rage, England's mood shifts and all he wants to to smash the bastard's face in until he stops looking like that.

"You will have to cut a little deeper than that, cheri."

England shakes his head, drops the knife and leans back on his haunches, face buried in his hands.

France sits up, blood dripping in malignant rivulets down his chest, pooling in his navel. "England..." he begins and England gives him a sharp look, watery green eyes and stubbornness. That's all he's ever had isn't it? Stubbornness and the Channel.

"England, please."

"No! Why are we... this is sick. I knew you were a sick fucker but this is something else."

France sighs and runs a hand through his hair leaving obscene streaks of crimson through the blond. "If you wish to stop, Angleterre, then I... I will not push. I will go back home."

England snorts derisively. "What? And I'll be getting a call from your boss asking what the fuck I said that lead to your mangled corpse being found in a stinking Parisian alleyway?"

"Then what do you suggest?"

England's shoulders slump. "I hate you when you're in one of these moods. Masochism is one thing but..."

"You would know all about that of course."

"I don't ask my god-damned lovers to cut me open like a... pig carcass ready for the butcher."

"I should go," France says. He tries to push himself to his feet, blood dripping to the ground in slow drops _one two three_ but he stumbles, and only Arthur catching him stops him from falling back to the ground.

"You're not going anywhere," England growls, and pinches the edges of the wound, drawing a sound from France that is half-scream and half moan and... England's eyes drop closed. Give him strength, he's going to do this isn't he?

He sits France down, leaned back against the cold tile wall and tries to focus on how frustrating it will be to clean in the morning, not on why he will have to clean it in the first place. France's breathing twists and hitches and the fear-arousal makes England squirm, hairs raising across his body. Every movement leaves another smear of blood and he's learned to hate the smell of ammonia; it burns his lungs and his nose and every time there is blood.

He cleans the knife first, the razor sharp blade disinfected, because even they can scar if infection sets in, and he doesn't want to see the reminder every time he looks at France's body. France protests it, every time he protests it, but England... he _can't_ , not when it isn't war.

The incision already made is nearly healed when he returns to it, the edges twisting as skin and flesh knit together as though it had never been. A breath, and he slides the blade down France's body in one smooth movement, cutting deep and biting his lip nearly through as France cries.

 

It would be easier if France's eyes weren't filled with gratitude and heat and affection. It would be easier if the fire there was rage and hatred and England could let that old enmity burn within him and fuel his movements. It would be easier if every cry didn't sound like a martyr seeing the face of god.

He cuts until he can see the sickening white of France's ribs and then sits back, breathing through his mouth. France's hands twitch and spasm, his face drawn into an expression of agony that he would doubtless call exquisite.

England just calls it agony.

"France," he says through gritted teeth, feeling it right through the nerves in his jaw. Surely this is enough, surely this is butchery enough for him. Please please let it be enough.

France turns those eyes to him, hazy and distant and England nearly cries as he sees the same look as the one France wears during their most tender moments, the nights when they touch and taste and kiss and hold each other, a shade away from tender.

England has killed and skinned many things in his life; rabbits and wild boars and bulls, and the movements never really leave you, even in the sterile modern age. He slides the knife between bone and flesh, smooth as breath, flips the slab of flesh back, white bone and seething muscle and he can't tear his gaze away, tracing sinew and muscle and the feathery veins and it's perfect somehow, beautiful and vile and he could take a picture of it. Something so beautiful shouldn't be forgotten.

He looks up finally, wonders if he's numb or if he's just gone mad and stifles a laugh because either sounds good about now.

France is smiling, beatific and he looks as close to heaven as England is ever likely to see, blond hair an unruly halo, lips moving like he's praying, but when England leans in, all he hears is pleaseyesmoregodEnglandplease! a gorgeous supplication and how can England resist?

He can never resist.

He leans forward to press his lips against France's, tastes blood and hollow breaths which rattle from France's lungs into his, like tremulous moths. France's lips are cool, his pulse thready where England kisses his neck and he doesn't have much time to end this game.

He leans back, blood smeared on his shirt and he'll have to throw it away, he thinks mildly, mind locked away in some other place, it's not even fit for rags now.

He can see the slowly pulsing beat of France's heart, there beneath his ribs, and France moans, a high whining sound as he slides the knife between two ribs _pleaseEnglandpleasegodyes_ down and down to that precious organ. It's almost like holding it in his hands, cupping it between his palms. Right ventricle. The blood spurts up from the wound and over England's hands, slick and sticky.

France's whine stops. He doesn't breath again.

England lies France out on the floor, a bloody crucifix. He cleans the wounds with antiseptic and folds the flaps of flesh and skin back over his chest, hiding away the ribs and ruined heart. Death does not bring peace to his face, but it does bring clarity. He looks as though he has seen that heaven that he speaks of, that glittering afterlife which England gave up on so long ago. He resents him for it, just a little, for finding salvation in England's bloodied butcher's hands.

\----------

France finds him in the shower, his skin pink from heat although the blood has long since washed away. France, already bathed, manages to look less a corpse than England doubtless does, his skin pale and smooth and the incision just a ragged angry mark down the centre of his chest. He stands in the doorway, watching him with an inscrutable expression as the water beats down on England's head.

England just stares at him and after a moment, France sighs and climbs into the shower next to him, water damping down his hair in a horrible tangle of seaweed knots. He leans against the wall. England remains sat on the floor, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around himself. He would laugh if the sound didn't cling to the back of his throat, the number of times he has seen their places reversed.

“I suppose that an apology is not going to mean much,” France says, his voice subdued and England hates hearing the uncertainty there.

“I should be apologising to you,” England says, curling in on himself. “Everything I did to you.” The blood on his hands, France's breath leaving his body, and it isn't like they're at war. They've not been at war with each other for over a century and maybe that's why. They can't live without violence towards each other.

Once he might have relished the act.

France's fingers twitch, obviously wanting a cigarette, but the air's too damp for that, the steam curling around them sinuously. “I asked you to do it,” France says slowly. “I begged you to do it. You were hardly grabbing a carving knife from the kitchen and shoving me down so that you could disembowel me while I begged for mercy.”

“There was no disembo- that isn't the point France!” England says, turning a dark look towards him. He dugs his fingers into his hair, making a noise of frustration. “Whenever something happens, you just shrug your shoulders and laugh like it's all a big joke, but it isn't! It's not a joke, it isn't funny and I have to clean your fucking blood off my floor!”

France is silent as death, his lips drawn tight and thin. “I know that it causes you pain,” he says carefully, worrying at his lower lip until it is swollen and red. “I would... I am very selfish,” he says, lips shifting into a mirthless smile and England finds his own quirking upwards in response. “I ask you because I need it, but I do not ask you if you can live with my need.”

England snorts derisively. “When have you ever cared about whether I can live with one of you little madnesses?” he asks, finally permitting himself to lean over and examine France, fingers trailing firmly over where he knew the incisions had been made. France hisses when his thumb finds a tender spot. England meets his gaze squarely and after a moment, pushes. His skin dips deep, breaks beneath the pressure as England opens the wound once more.

The way France's breath comes just a little sharper allures as much as revolts.

He pulls away sharply leaving a slick trail of scorched red where his fingers pass.”You bring out the worst in me,” he says, teeth bared savagely as he looks up at France's pale face.

France smiles, a lazy expression that makes him want to break bones and teeth and makes him sick to his stomach. “Don't we all?” he asks, and his hand against England's side is light and affectionate, enough to make England slump once again, squeezing his eyes tight shut against what he doesn't deserve.  
“Just you,” he mutters, “it's just you. No-one else would have me do this.”

“But would you do this for anyone else?” France replied, twisting his words snake-like around him, wrapped around his throat until it strangles his protest. He couldn't lie if he tried.

“No,” he replies, a wretched admission. “I'd leave them to rot on the battlefield, but I wouldn't... touch them like this. I wouldn't. Only you.” He shakes his head violently, not certain how to articulate the confused thoughts whirling in his mind.

France smiles. Of all things he _smiles_ , and he nuzzles his cheek against England's temple, scruff of a beard scratching against his skin. He wrinkles his nose at the feeling. “You say the sweetest things, Angleterre.” There's teasing in his words, but when England catches his gaze, twisting in his arms, there is nothing but sincerity in his blue eyes.

England rolls his eyes, tilts his head back against the cooling tile. “I'd say sweeter things in a nice restaurant I'm sure.” When he can't see the phantoms of the marks that he had left on France's skin. When he can't remember the stench of blood, the slick stuff across his hands, caked beneath his fingernails.

“Anyone can murmur sweet nothings beneath candlelight and in the glow of good wine,” France says softly, lips pressed against the hair next to his ear. “That is why they are called 'nothings'. Meaningless and ephemeral.”

“But your blood shed by my hands is the highest of romantic gestures,” England says dryly, lips twisting into a bitter smirk. “Of course.”

“It is something that is only for me. You said that you would not leave me to rot like your other enemies, and you have so many.”

“Heh, only you would take this grimness for love.”

France catches his chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. “Isn't it?” he asks, a note to his voice that makes England shiver. He leans close so that their lips nearly touch, puffs of breath brushing over England's lips, warm and so very alive. “Such violence aimed towards one person, such devotion to my destruction.”

England shivers, the feeling squirming across his skin, because how much time has he spent fighting France? How many times has he joined a war just to make him suffer and see him bleed, even if he is not that person any longer?

“Why would you desire someone who wants to hurt you?” he asks, voice low and strained. “You could have anyone.”  
The kiss is unexpected and anything but tender; violence which crushes their lips and teeth together, leaves his mouth bleeding from the pressure, the copper sharp tang of it flooding his mouth. It makes him _groan_. And then France is looking at him, half-lidded eyes filled with darkness that chokes England's breath in his throat, makes desire coil in his gut thick and twisted.

“Because, my dearest England,” France says, leaning their foreheads together so that there is nowhere else to look except into ancient eyes. His hand presses hard against England's chest, hard enough to bruise flesh and bone, “Out of every enemy, every ally, you are the only one who will never forget me.”

And when he pulls away, there is a perfect five point star of fingerprints, right over his heart.


End file.
